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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380360">cannon fodder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rancour/pseuds/rancour'>rancour</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Community: snkkink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Force-Feeding, Horror, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:29:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rancour/pseuds/rancour</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A desperate situation requires desperate measures. Stranded in the middle of titan territory, Eren can't stand to watch Mikasa and Armin go hungry. Not when he can provide a solution.</i>
</p><p>De-anon of an old snkkink fill for the following request: Eren sacrifices some of his own body to feed them. While Mikasa is pragmatic and accepts Eren's meat, Armin is resistant [...] Eren has to hold him down and force him to eat.</p><p>(Please heed the tags. Additional warnings in the author's note.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman &amp; Armin Arlert &amp; Eren Yeager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cannon fodder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW: self-amputation (Eren cuts off his own forearm); cannibalism, consensual and non-consensual; force-feeding, both by hand and by mouth. There's also a one-sided sexual element to the force-feeding between Eren and Armin (Eren &gt; Armin). </p><p>Note: this fic was written in 2013, and characterisation and scenario reflect that fact.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“They’ll look for us,” says Armin, but doubt’s started to creep into his voice. “Eren’s too important to lose. The best thing we can do is stay put.”</p><p>They’ve been stuck here five days and ran out of supplies after two. Hunting is a spectacular failure: the presence of titans keeps most animals at bay, and Mikasa deems it too risky after Armin rouses a lurking seven-metre class trying to catch a rabbit. It’s not like hunger is something they don’t know—they went days without food at the refugee camps, sometimes—but that was over three years ago, and Eren has gotten used to the regularity of mess at the barracks. They’re all slow to wake when it’s their turn to keep watch. Even Mikasa, otherwise unaffected, lacks her usual precision.</p><p>“Survival training couldn’t have prepared us for this,” Armin says, in a vague attempt at consolation. Eren remembers being taught how to make traps, to read animal tracks, which plants and fruits to avoid. In practice, none of it’s much use. “Dehydration is more of a worry than starvation. Let’s just focus on getting water for now.”</p><p>If survival training taught them anything worthwhile, it’s the importance of high ground. They stay up in trees during the day, and they’re tall enough that avoiding the titans that pass through is easy. Only the persistent few that try climbing or jumping are dispatched. Empty gas tanks and dull blades are burdens they don’t need on top of everything else. </p><p>By the third day, Eren’s patience had begun to wane, and he suggested he shift and carry them. The stretch to the wall was too long to risk on foot, and their horses had fled with the rapid stampede of an abnormal that had run straight past them into the forest. Eren found the waiting the worst. Despite Armin’s assurances, risky action had started to sound better than none.</p><p>Mikasa had been quick to shoot him down. “We don’t know the physical limitations of your titan form yet,” she’d said, and went on before Eren even had the chance to open his mouth, “you might not be able to maintain a fast pace all the way to the wall. There’ll be a lot more trouble if you slow down or shift back midway.”</p><p>Armin had nodded his agreement, staring into the knot of his hands as if he could find answers there. “Titans are just as attracted to you as they are to humans. More so.” His voice had gone small. “If something were to happen to you… Look, it’s safer to wait for the rescue unit. Horses can outrun titans easily over long distances." </p><p>They had been right. They <i>are</i> right. Deep in his bones, Eren knows the other risks that Mikasa and Armin don’t broach. Control over his titan form comes easier now that it used to, but there’s always the possibility… Knowing doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty, though, and it only worsens when he watches them: Armin’s constant working through theories, plans, probabilities, in his head; Mikasa, scanning for danger and managing it with uncanny ease. Eren feels useless in comparison. He’s been watching the hunger dull them, too—Armin’s eyes growing vacant, faraway, the one time Mikasa botches a landing, slipping only to catch herself on the next branch.</p><p>Eren is not so affected: he’s aware of his empty stomach but he doesn’t cramp with hunger. He feels tired, but not exhausted; and when he gets a good period in straight sunlight, he feels restored. Titans don't <i>need</i> to eat, after all.

It’s because Eren wants to be helpful that it comes to him. A creeping realisation as he stretches out the soreness from his joints, pausing to flex his wrists. Eren feels Mikasa’s eyes on him.</p><p>“Are you okay?” she asks. The concern in her voice is obvious, but she doesn’t let it reach her face. </p><p>Eren blinks at her, then back down at his arms. He shakes his head, says, “I’m fine. I’m just thinking.”</p><p>Armin, some ways away, perks up. He’s got his knees drawn up to his chest. Eren figures he must be feeling the cold, and desperate resolve urges him on.</p><p>“At Trost, I lost my arm and leg, but they grew back, right? And… and after the trial, my tooth grew back too,” says Eren, slowly, deliberately, like he’s still trying to figure out the logistics of this himself. Mikasa goes tense at the memory of the beating, but she gives a perfunctory nod. </p><p>Armin’s chin has sunk back to the dip between his knees. He worries at his bottom lip, now, his voice carrying over to them. “What are you getting at?”</p><p>The waver in his tone tells Eren that he must be thinking the same. So’s Mikasa, by the careful way she holds Eren’s stare. It makes saying it out loud somehow easier. </p><p>“If we cut off one of my arms,” he begins, watching them, “you could… you could eat it.”</p><p>There’s a strange, hollow silence. Mikasa doesn’t react, not immediately, but Armin shoots up so abruptly that he almost loses his balance. </p><p>“Eren, there’s—there’s no way we could ask you to do that!” he says, and it’s nearly reproachful. “The situation isn’t that dire.”</p><p>Eren snaps, “So what, we just wait until it is? Until I don’t have the energy to heal myself anyway?”</p><p>He feels bad when Armin flinches, but not bad enough to take it back. Instead, he rounds on Mikasa.</p><p>Her face is set neutral, blank. “Is that really what you want to do?”</p><p>“What choice do we have?” Eren says, his voice hoarser, sadder than he expects. A frown twists Mikasa’s face for a fraction of a second. </p><p>“No,” she says, not harsh so much as matter of fact. “I asked if this is what you <i>want</i> to do.”</p><p>The answer requires no thought at all. It’s practically reflexive. “Yes. For you both—of course it is.” </p><p>Mikasa considers this, and then her shoulders drop back: surrender. </p><p>“It’s true that our movements have been getting sluggish,” she says.</p><p>Armin huffs a disbelieving breath. He looks between the both of them, imploring, “We can try hunting again! This isn’t—” </p><p>“You were the ones who said it was too dangerous,” Eren says, “at least we’re not using up gas or energy, this way.”</p><p>Armin’s mouth opens, but no words come. He throws up his hands, shifting his desperate gaze to Mikasa. She meets it easier than Eren does. There’s something clear about her eyes, lips thinned to a line. She says, “What if you don’t have the energy to heal now?”</p><p>“I do. I will.” Eren tries to keep his voice steady, steeling it with his resolve. Though honestly he is no more certain than they are.</p><p>Mikasa turns to shrug a question at Armin.</p><p>He gapes at them a moment, then scans their faces like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, though, Armin doesn’t seem to find it—or maybe he does, and that’s why he slumps back against the trunk of tree he stands on. His eyes are dark and lined with worry.</p><p>“I’m… I can’t,” he whispers. His hands ball into fists; Eren can see his knuckles tense white. “I can’t watch.”</p><p>It makes him want to get angry, a little. Doesn’t Armin understand he just wants to help? That this is the only way he <i>can</i> help? Eren goes to grapple over, reaching halfway for his gear before Mikasa’s hand stops him.</p><p>“It’ll be easier at the joint,” she says, gently. Her hand slides down to rest on his forearm, then away.</p><p>Eren takes a breath. Right. He lets the tension run from his body, folding his sleeve past his elbow. Armin’s shoulders are shaking, but Eren’s made his decision. It’s the only possible choice, the only right one. They can worry about convincing him later. </p><p>It’s easier than he expects it to be, dropping to a kneel to lay his forearm flat, levering the blade against the soft flesh of his inner elbow. The cool line of it makes his hair stand on end, but the fear doesn’t come like he expects it to; only certainty, a grim determination.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Mikasa’s jaw has gone tight, but her voice is rock steady.</p><p>Eren breathes hard through his nose. “Yeah. I’m sure.”</p><p>The first inches are a clean slide into his flesh, pain bringing the world into sharp focus. He feels the edge grind against the curve of the socket before something gives, then the strange fibrous tear as it slices through connective tissue. There’s a pop, and the warmth of Mikasa’s hand against his own on the hilt when he hesitates.</p><p>“Fuck,” Eren hisses, pain spotting his vision. The healing is slow to take, and Eren knows it’s because he’s tired, because he’s hungry, because it takes effort to focus his attention on it, but his stomach still lurches. He breathes a sigh of relief when the bleeding stops, the searing pain dulled to something bearable. </p><p>“Does it hurt badly?” Mikasa says. She sounds unsettled for the first time, speaking so quietly. Eren shrugs.</p><p>“No, not that much.” A lie but a benign one. He passes her the blade and gestures to his severed forearm. “Here, cut it up.”</p><p>Something fleets across her face at this—disgust, maybe, or horror—but Mikasa masks it expertly and does as she’s told. Armin still has his back turned to them. Eren knows it’s his imagination, a trick of the light, but his silhouette looks rail thin against the solid trunk of the tree.</p><p>“Armin,” Eren says, soft. His shoulders twitch in response. “It’s done, now. I’m fine.”</p><p>There’s a long pause before Armin turns to face him. He grimaces as he catches a glimpse of Eren’s arm, the sudden stop at the junction of his elbow. The flesh has already started to seal and re-form, steaming in the cool air. He goes white-pale when he looks to Mikasa, methodically slicing. </p><p>She interrupts the silence. “We’ll wait till nightfall and start a fire,” Mikasa says. The steady motion of the blade never stops, working down the bone even as she turns her attention to Eren. “Will your arm have grown back by then?”<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> _______________</p>
</div><br/>Night comes. They try to avoid staying on the ground, even when titans are mostly dormant, but they’re sure as hell not building a fire up in the canopy. Armin is quick to excuse himself after it’s lit: first, under the guise of refilling their water skins from the nearby stream, and then an awkward offer to keep watch while they eat. Eren is reluctant, but Mikasa’s faster to agree than he is to argue. For all her quiet apathy, she’s perceptive when it comes to people’s feelings. Eren doesn’t press the issue.<p>It is, admittedly, a little weird watching pieces of—what had been—his left arm cook, while looking down at his left arm. It took a few hours, but it grew back perfectly. Mikasa keeps stealing glances at it, like she can’t quite believe it’s real.</p><p>“You should eat as well,” she says, passing him some across the fire. Eren doesn’t mind the mothering much this time, and hunger overrides the worst of his misgivings. It doesn’t smell or taste like anything he’s had before, but it’s been so long since Eren’s had any meat that it doesn’t bother him.</p><p>They eat in companionable silence. Mikasa doesn’t have the same reservations as Armin, clearly: she eats well and without protest, pausing only to hand more to Eren. Once she’s had her fill, she rises and dusts off the front of her pants. </p><p>“I’ll take over patrol,” says Mikasa, her voice low. She throws Eren a pointed look as she walks away. “Make sure he eats. He needs to.”</p><p>Eren frowns—as if he wouldn’t—but nods anyway. He watches the exchange between her and Armin, barely visible in the peripheral light given off by the fire. His spine goes rigid at Mikasa’s touch, and it doesn’t relax even as she relieves him of his post. Armin takes his time walking over. He’s careful to avoid Eren’s gaze, eyeing the cuts of browned meat at the side of the fire instead. </p><p>A minute passes, and Eren feels frustration well up within him. “You need to eat something,” he says, “Mikasa and I have already.”</p><p>Armin looks away, messing with his gear, his hair, the grass at his feet. He always got restless when he was nervous. Eren doesn’t miss the way his hands come to rest against his stomach, either. </p><p>“… I can’t.” Armin presses at his face, his eyelids, as though he can’t stand to look anymore. “You’re a person, Eren. You’re my friend, not some… some animal.”</p><p>“There’s no point starving yourself,” Eren says. It sounds colder than he means it to, enough to make Armin wince, so he takes a breath before continuing. “I mean, you might as well. Mikasa was fine with it. You can’t even tell that—that it is what it is.”</p><p>Armin does not look convinced. Rather, he looks scared and sad and small, all at once, and it twists Eren up in knots. He hates that he’s made Armin feel like this. He hates that Armin can make <i>him</i> feel like this, the awful creeping edge of resentment, slick under Eren’s skin. If Armin would stop thinking and just—just do, for once—he’d feel better. </p><p><i>Make sure he eats.</i> That’s what Mikasa said. </p><p>A thought seeds there. Takes root, grows. Armin’s smaller than he is, weakened by hunger, struggled anyway with gaining muscle mass. Eren can already feel some of his own strength returning, the weight of hot food billowing in his stomach. If Armin refuses to eat, then Eren will have to make sure he does. That’s all there is. </p><p>After a loaded pause, Eren raises his hands in surrender. There’s a sigh from Armin, relieved, tired, as he tucks his face behind his folded arms. He’s not looking, so Eren conceals a strip of cooked flesh in his fist and counts down in silence. five. four. three. two. one—</p><p>It happens all in a rush. He pitches forward, driving Armin flat to the ground and straddling his hips in the shocked stillness. Eren’s glad they waited till his arm grew back: holding the meat in one, he forces Armin’s mouth open with the other, hooking two fingers against the blunt ridge of his molars. There’s a hiss of pain, or surprise, and Armin’s eyes go wide with sudden comprehension. He starts to struggle. His fatigue is obvious—sweat’s already beading on his temple, and he can’t get any strength behind his attempts to throw Eren off, eyes huge and fever-bright. Eren feels the prick of frustrated tears at his own.</p><p><i>It’s for his own good</i>, he tells himself, over and over, a mantra. <i>We need to keep our strength up. I just want to help. You’re always helping me.</i></p><p>Armin scrabbles at his forearms. His nails are too blunt to break the skin, and he’s too weak besides to get any purchase. It’s easy to push the meat into Armin’s mouth, forcing it down with two fingers until he feels the tight seize of his throat. Eren clamps a hand over his mouth a second later, the other massaging his neck. Something inside him flutters, dark and alive, when he feels Armin swallow on reflex. </p><p>After a pause, Armin’s chest still heaving, Eren draws his hand away. It’s both the best and worst thing he’s ever seen, looking down at Armin. He’s flushed from exertion, blinking wetly as saliva tracks down the shiny corner of his mouth.</p><p>“You get it, right?” says Eren, desperate, because he wants him to. He wants Armin to understand that this is for him. “We need you. I need you.”</p><p>Armin lets out a choked gasp. He keeps swallowing, throat bobbing under Eren’s fingers. “Oh, god,” he says, cringing away, “get off, please, please—”</p><p>Armin’s hands fly to his mouth.</p><p>“Don’t,” Eren warns, fighting to grab at his hands and hoist them above his head. “You’ll make yourself sick.”</p><p>Armin makes a low, keening whine, like a hurt animal. With determination only more steadfast for his resistance, Eren reaches over to grab another strip of flesh, careful to maintain his grip on Armin’s wrists in one hand. Armin goes stiff at the sight of it. He seems to have given up on fighting back, at least, but when Eren brings the food to his mouth, it stays firmly shut.</p><p>“Armin,” he says, quietly, “please.”</p><p>Armin’s chest convulses in either a sob or a shudder. Frustrated, Eren tucks the meat between his own teeth and works a finger into Armin’s mouth again, prying at the hinge of his jaw till it parts. Eren leans close, the heat of Armin’s panicked breath cutting across his cheek before he presses their lips together. Diverting his free hand to stroke at Armin’s throat again, he pushes the meat between them with his tongue. Armin’s not as quick to swallow this time, but Eren’s in no rush to break apart. He lets his tongue slide across Armin’s teeth, experimental, feeling the raw spot where he must have bit into his cheek during the mad scramble earlier. Eren recognises the tang of blood, there, and licks at it.</p><p>A part of him wants to stay like this. Armin is warm underneath him, solid, and now that he’s not struggling, almost comfortable. He’s thought about kissing Armin before—not that Eren is sure that you could call <i>this</i> kissing, but it’s—it’s nice, and it feels like what he expects kissing would feel like. </p><p>Armin groans against him. Eren’s fascinated by the way it hums through the skin of his throat, like the strings of an instrument vibrating against his palm. He knows the note of desperation behind it, though. Once he’s satisfied that Armin has swallowed, Eren breaks away with a wet noise. </p><p>Armin looks more dazed than before, taking in frantic gasps of air, his eyes like frosted glass. Fuck. He looks incredible, unreal. Eren’s never seen him like this before, and it makes him hyper-aware of how close they are, how hot his skin feels, the strange writhing that’s started just below his stomach. It takes him a moment to realise he’s half-hard where his lap presses into Armin’s abdomen.</p><p>Eren wills himself to ignore it, shifting to nose at Armin’s temple. Tender, familiar. “It’s not that bad, is it?” he says, trying to sound warm. “I just want you to eat something. You’re no good to us all, all out of it.”</p><p>It’s true, but there’s more than that—that, above everything, Eren fears losing him so much that it guts him. Armin told him after the first hungry day, <i>starvation takes weeks to kill, don’t worry, as long as we have water</i>, but it didn’t stop Eren feeling ill when he saw Armin pull his knees to his chest to ward off the cold. </p><p>Armin doesn’t reply, except to twist his wrists against the circle of Eren’s fingers. The skin is hot, there, and Eren can feel the delicate bones rotate, sinew tensing. </p><p>Eren sighs. “There’s only a little bit left now, okay?”</p><p>Something in Armin’s expression clears a little, like parting fog. “I don’t want it,” he says, weakly, but with the kind of calm steadiness with which one would address a child. “I don’t want to, Eren. I’m not… hungry.”</p><p>His speech dwindles to nothing. Guilt settles in Eren’s stomach, but there’s something hot and selfish besides, that curls pleasantly when he looks at Armin’s wet mouth. His cock twitches, and Eren has to resist the urge to rut against Armin’s thigh. </p><p>“It’s not much, I promise,” he says. He grabs at the meat left over and places it between his teeth again.</p><p>Armin goes taut as a bowstring. He doesn’t speak, turning his head away. Eren feels inchoate frustration rise in his blood and tugs at Armin’s chin, though he’s careful not to grip too hard in fear of hurting him. The kiss is hot and slick. This time, despite his reticence, Armin opens to him, accepting the flesh into his mouth. He even manages to swallow without any encouragement. Eren kisses him deeper, feeling every corner and dimple of his teeth, sliding his tongue along his palate. There won’t be any excuse for this later, Eren knows. He wants to get the most out of it while he can. </p><p>He pulls away when Armin’s breathing gets harsh again. He’s still achingly hard, but that doesn’t matter now with Armin’s eyes half-lidded, full of odd resignation. There’s no grief, no anger. Just something indecipherable.</p><p>“… Okay?” says Armin, wearily.</p><p>Eren shifts his weight back, releasing his grip on Armin’s wrists. They stay like that for a while, silent and still, the only sounds their breathing and the crackle of the fire.</p><p>“Yeah. Okay,” Eren says. Then, softer so it’s barely above a whisper, “Thanks, Armin.”</p><p>When they separate, Armin doesn’t say anything—only wipes at his mouth and eyes, fixes his hair, and when Mikasa comes he still says nothing. Merely nods his acknowledgement when her shadow casts across them. Eren wonders if he understands, now. How survival is the only thing that matters. How his eyes are clearer. How Eren wants him to live, desperately, madly.</p><p>Because that’s the most important thing.</p>
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